Thinking Makes My Brain Hurt
by oozorawesomeREIJI
Summary: Clyde's straight, except he's kind of gay. Craig is a dick, Tweek is Tweek, and Token has common sense. Kevin might be in the Chinese mafia. Oh, and Kyle likes math. Clyde's life.. sucks. Some Creek, eventual ClydeKyle, and other things that defy logic.
1. The horror of being single

Well, this is the first SP fic I ever started, so here goes. Once upon a time, (i.e. the first 5 seconds of writing this story), I was trying to write some srs teen angst. Clyde was all like, "NO U," and so here I come bearing crack. Medicinal style~

* * *

**1. Clyde introduces the horror of being single.**

**

* * *

**The first thought was probably "Ew," followed up by a graceful segue into "Why God, why?"

It was a... predicament that made Clyde almost giddy with confusion. Of course, a confused Clyde Donovan wasn't the most uncommon thing to find in the fucked up town of South Park. But c'mon gaiz, Clyde's feelings were only totally uncool and mushy. And, in all seriousness, Craig abhorred these outbreaks of – cue: "Sick!" – **emotion.** A solution needed to be found! ASAP, goddamnit.

Too much confusion could lead to crying, and damn it if Craig (and those guys) really wanted to put up with that.

"Guys, I don't know what the hell we've covered this entire term." Clyde's eyes threatened to release the humiliation of freely flowing tears. Never mind the fact that they were sixteen, and sort of too old for this. "I don't w-wanna faaaaillll!"

Being ever so skilful with words, Craig Tucker began what was starting to be a customary monotone chant of "Shut the fuck up, Clyde, and stop complaining." Clyde was also flipped off a couple of times during this pleasant intervention, but he was too busy burying his face in his hands to actually notice.

Token Black (the smart one!) attempted to reason with Clyde. "It's just a biology test," he said, slowly, as though each word had to be enunciated for proper comprehension. Snaps, Token really knew what he was doing. "We can have a study group if you really want, Clyde. But bio has really obvious answers." Which was why they were taking it in the first place, even though Clyde's memory was absolute shit.

"Ergh," Tweek Tweak offered, spazztastically twitching and being useless. That was okay though, because Tweek sucked at bio anyway. But the explosions were hilarious to watch. :) No one else could make things explode in biology. Not even Clyde! – wait, what did that even mean?

A moment of silence, permeated with a thick atmosphere of 'Clyde-is-a-loser-ignore-him-okay-guys.' This was instigated by Craig and his psychic powers of leadership. Aka magical mind control. It was kind of creepy.

Tweek looked compelled to jump onto the table and accuse Craig of being an alien bent on forcing the Clydes (WHY THE CLYDES?) of the world to do badly in biology, which would endanger the rest of the human population and turn everyone into melty robots and – and then death and ergh! It wasn't a totally improbable idea, because only aliens would have such a strange obsession with wearing UNWASHED AVIATOR HATS FOR YEARS AND YEARS. Unfortunately for Tweek, the mind control was too powerful, and he couldn't think for himself. Instead he suffered quietly and stared at Craig, because he was the theoretical needy chick in that particular relationship.

But Clyde had better things to do than analyze Tweek's terror, so he broke the silence first. Craig's mind powers didn't have a very good hold on crybabies. Obviously.

Thusly: "Dude, this sucks," angsted the brunet, taking his face out of his hands.

"Whatever," said Craig, flipping him off in the nicest way possible.

"Well..." Token tapped the table with his pencil.

Tweek cut him off. "We should start making notes, ngh, NOW!"

The problem was that Craig and those guys were pretty much sitting at a fail. Except for Token, who for some strange reason handed things in on time. Bitch, please. Craig was too lazy, Clyde didn't understand the material at all – and had perhaps the crappiest memory ever, and Tweek had freaked out upon turning to the page about viral replication.

"The test's in two weeks, dumbass," muttered Craig. "We have a shitload of time."

("Oh, really?" Clyde perked up. The threat of tears dissolved immediately.)

"Yeah and then those two weeks will turn into days, and then before you know it, Craig, we'll have to do an all-nighter and cram! Jesus, I don't want to stress about it the night before! It's too much pressure! And then what if we fail, I'll have to retake it in the summer and the gnomes will take everything WHEN I'M NOT LOOKING –"

Craig cut the blond off. "So, study group or not?" he said, disinterest colouring his words. He secured a hand onto Tweek's to calm the spaz down.

It was a struggle to keep the conversation going. Was biology really that boring? Did that question even need asking?

"- they're everywhere!" Twitch. Shudder. An unsexy moan of distress. "Ngyaaah..." Tweek was, for the most part, ignored.

Clyde shrugged. "My place, whenever. I hate bio." He sighed dramatically and turned to the clock on the wall. "Two minutes, and I am going to have a weekend without stupid science."

"So I take it 'whenever' means 'not this weekend because I will be busy fapping?' " queried Craig drily. Air quotes while holding Tweek's hand at the same time ftw. "Just get a fucking girlfriend already. It's not hard."

Said the gay man. Clyde's eyebrows rose skeptically. "You can't lecture me on getting a girlfriend," he pointed out defensively, hazel blob-eyes narrowing in Craig's direction. "You and Tweek... yeah, um." He crossed his arms huffily.

The dark-haired boy ignored this outburst, and continued attacking Clyde's many flaws. It was a favourite activity of his. How he managed to be so influential even with his arm casually slung around Tweek's waist was a mystery. It was like they were in a poorly directed rom-com, Clyde mused.

"Dude, you're blushing. Just get a girlfriend, it's not like you don't want one." The floppy blue hat shook with emphasis.

Oh gee, Craig was really concerned, huh.

"It is kinda sad," Token admitted to his sort of BFF. Clyde made a face at him. This was a little too much, if they were trying to get back at him for being such a crybaby over biology. His friends were assholes.

The bell rang, and the brunet rushed to shove his binder into his awesomely disorganized backpack.

"Well," said Token, as they left the classroom, "you could always try. I thought you liked Bebe? She's single right now."

Clyde the Perv attempted to snap into a persuasive tone, like a Kenny who hadn't quite gotten laid yet. "Token, it's just that porn makes everything seem a little more exciting." He winked, clicked his tongue, and snapped his fingers. Token winced, as though physically injured. "So what if you've got Heidi, and Tweek is sort of dependent on Mr. I-Don't-Give-A-Fuck?" Clyde jerked his head back to indicate Craig and Tweek. "You'll see. I'll get the chick that likes tacos just as much as me," he insisted heatedly. "'Sides, you have no idea what you're missing out on." He smiled convincingly through the bullshit.

Token only had enough time to roll his eyes before Heidi came by to snatch his hand and plant a wet kiss on his cheek. "I'll discuss this with you later," he promised.

"See ya, Token," muttered Clyde, sending evil glares to Heidi's back. Bitch stole his ride home (aka his best friend). Ugh. Now he'd have to _walk_.

Clyde and Heidi did not have a friendly relationship. He couldn't bring himself to like her, for some reason. Hint: Lamest boobs ever. Like, flatter than Wendy. Anyone flatter than _Wendy_ was just sad. Clyde drew the line there because at least Wendy could still kick your ass, and dating her would be like having a qualified ninjapirate around, who also had nice legs and made out aggressively. Okay, so maybe he was kind of jealous of Cartman. What_ever_.

He turned around to see Craig and Tweek walking hand in hand. After about a week, their relationship still didn't make sense to him. How did apathy mix so well with spastic ADD?

And when the hell did his best friends suddenly decide to make out? Weak. Still, they were his friends, and he wasn't supposed to be so shocked about it. The rest of the school didn't care anyway. But for the past few days, in practically every class Clyde had with them, he'd had to witness some sickening act of affection or other. _Eeew, Craig is feeling Tweek up. My brain hurts,_ would be Clyde's natural response.

The transition from "Oh, we're best friends!" to "Oh, we're making out with each other in socials!" had been awkward for Clyde to witness. Maybe it was because he had to sit _directly across from them_ or something. He just didn't see Craig and Tweek meshing together that well (in any respect, because yes, he would go there). But what was he supposed to know, anyway? He was Clyde.

So he didn't say anything out of the ordinary. He just waited for them to catch up, with the dorkiest smile plastered on his face. It was the thing Clyde was sort of good at: acting like everything was normal. Which was never the case, especially when his stomach was twisting unpleasantly and he didn't know how to explain it away. It helped that he was extremely unobservant, what with being lost in his own wonderfully perverted world and all. He just knew that he was confused about... things, like life in general.

Tweek was still overdramatizing the dangers of slacking off, much to his boyfriend's amusement. "Christ, you're insane," murmured Craig affectionately. Clyde pondered the depths of that 'affection,' then decided against delving too far.

"Seriously, the test can't be that bad." Way to sound convincing, Craig.

"I dunno," said Clyde, unable to fight the urge to be a total dick, "we could fail!" He grinned widely as Tweek went on another spazz tangent thing. Craig flipped him off – again. After sending an obnoxious peace sign Craig's way, Clyde turned the corner to get to his locker. "Oh hey, Kyle."

The tall, sticklike Kyle Broflovski waved at him while trying to balance an armful of books, and Clyde grinned back. Then, there was a very anticlimactic thudding noise.

"Shit." The redhead gritted his teeth as one of his textbooks tumbled to the floor, dangerously close to Clyde's feet.

Clyde bent down to retrieve the eight-hundred page monstrosity for his acquaintance. He disregarded the fact that he'd voluntarily touched a _physics_ book and asked, "Why're you even taking this?"

"University," Kyle replied, taking the book back from Clyde. "Thanks. Well, I still haven't decided what I'm gonna be yet, but I like science and math." He laughed when Clyde eyed him doubtfully. "I have to get going. I'm meeting Stan at the bus. I'll see you in math tomorrow? Damn parabolas."

"Okay, see you later, Kyle!" And yes, fuck those parabolas to hell. That was why it was always good to keep connections with smart people.

After Kyle left, Clyde let the teen angst come back in waves, and he bit his lip and tried to blink back the tears. Sixteen year old guys with working dicks did not cry. At least, that's what Craig told him.

Goddamn, he was a lonely SOL.

* * *

Clyde hated opening his locker. It was extremely difficult to spin the numbers just right, especially when he was distracted. Currently he was wallowing in the pain of being single, and in a Tweek-worthy spasm of panic, Clyde began to fear perpetual single-dom. WTF **NOOOOOO**.

He was squinting and poking his tongue out of his mouth at this point, and he was still getting the combo wrong. He wasn't the smartest kid in the school – that was Kyle's job – but this shouldn't have been so fucking impossible.

"Damn, Clyde, that's the saddest thing I've seen all week."

The boy-without-a-cool-hat ignored Craig's sudden appearance and continued glaring at his lock. "Son of a _bitch_," he muttered under his breath, trying to stifle the redness creeping up his cheeks. It was embarrassing to have to struggle this much with a lock. It was worse still, when those familiar hands (not that they'd ever done anything to Clyde except flip him off, of course) snatched the lock from his fumbling fingertips, and slid the numbers into place.

A triumphant, almost mocking, click. Then: "Jesus Christ, you fail at life. How the hell is that hard?" It is to be noted here that Craig, unlike Clyde, had the lock combination memorized. Even though it was technically Clyde's responsibility and all that jazz. What a responsible guy, that Craig dude.

"Thanks," Clyde mumbled. He'd been working on the lock for a full five minutes, and Craig's coming by just to one-up him was annoying. Very [secretly] appreciated, but annoying. "So, where's Tweek?" he asked, clamping his mouth shut just in time when the words "you guys don't mesh" almost slipped through. He really needed to work on filtering his speech. And Thomas thought _he_ had it bad...

He grabbed his jacket and slammed the locker closed with more violence than necessary. Clyde was still thinking about his impending future of being single and never getting laid. He was worried, and a little irritated. _Why am I still single?_ and other such self sympathizing thoughts ensued. For example, _Oh damn it, I forgot where I put the donuts. Fuck. _

"Tweek had to go to work," said Craig flatly, snapping the lock back on. "He would've forgotten if I didn't remind him. I'm just gonna watch Red Racer today."

Clyde blinked. "Oh, wow, okay." Typical meaningless answers. For God's sake, he had more pressing issues to address, like learning how to pick up girls! He was sure he was smooth, though.

"So," Craig's eyes bored into Clyde's wussy soul ("Dude, stop it."), "you want to come over? My parents doesn't care, they're at Ruby's piano concert or something." He smiled, unconsciously baring two rows of braces that sparkled ominously in the fluorescent hallway. It was like a horror movie, except actually scary.

But Clyde liked to be unconventional with his answers. "Hey Craig, did you ever get to second base with Tweek? Didja break his taste buds?" It slipped out without a second thought; those stupid braces were kind of distracting. Clyde wondered how French-kissing would go, and internally shuddered when he imagined all the blood –

"Clyde, the _fuck_." Somehow that was a statement that Clyde understood pretty clearly. And if by chance Clyde didn't get it, Craig's middle finger was very indicative of his feelings.

"O-Oh, that's a shame. Well, I guess I can come over. We have to walk, Token left already... And I need to drop off my shit at home before we –" he stuck his tongue out at a very bored looking Craig, "watch Red Racer. Please. You're such a fanboy."

Craig nodded. "Hurry up, it starts at four."

* * *

The walk home wasn't as treacherously painful and shitty as he'd anticipated, which was nice. After all, November in South Park was cold. And lame. Still, he wasn't freezing to death. Clyde was beginning to think that the scarf was a pretty damn cool invention. But man, he seriously needed to get his driver's license. Depending on Token was starting to make him feel like a needy chick, and that did nothing for his libido.

_God_, he needed a girlfriend.

"Sooooo, I haven't watched Red Racer since grade four," he confessed. He was more into downloading porn than watching crappily animated cartoons, after all. Sure, lesbian cheerleaders were getting a little vanilla, but they were in high-def – unlike Red Racer.

Craig gave him the ultimate fanboy death glare (yet another blank stare). "Yeah, I bet," he finally replied, without the faintest hint of an actual smile, "but there's gonna be a marathon running all day. I am soooo happy."

"Who watches it anyway? Like, five year olds?" Clyde smiled into his scarf.

"Five year olds, and me," Craig said pointedly. He poked Clyde in the shoulder. "And now you." Craig spoke with such conviction that Clyde was forced to believe it.

He sighed. "What, is Tweek too grown up to watch it with you?"

"Usually Tweek distracts me from watching Red Racer." Craig smirked, quirking his eyebrows suggestively.

"Dude." It came out in a disbelieving squeak. The shorter teen ran a hand through his messy bedhead and screwed his eyes shut. _Niiiiiice imagery right there, Craig. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. Hey, I wonder how it goes with the braces though? _

Imagining his friends making out with each other was weird, and the sanctity of his and Token's BFFness was being threatened. He hoped he and Token didn't randomly start dating – it would be a scandal for poor Heidi and her nonexistent tits. "Oh God, my brain just melted."

Red Racer's biggest fan just grinned and flipped the bird to no one in particular. "Douche."

"Just sayin'," Clyde replied, in lieu of a snappy comeback.

They rounded a corner, and in a few moments they reached the Donovans' front door. He fumbled in his pocket for the key, ignoring the bright candy wrappers that spilled out onto the pavement. Craig didn't bother to hide his amusement as he watched the brunet twist the key in the wrong direction.

"You'd make the shittiest thief ever."

"Yeah, but what can you do about it?" Finally the lock clicked open, and Clyde shot the other boy an exultant glance. "Do you wanna come in for a sec? I just need to put my books away."

"Okay, whatever." Craig pulled his phone out to check the time. "Good thing I live like, two blocks away. Hurry your ass up, douchebag."

Craig had finally grown out of the nasal voice, as he'd decided it was a good idea to take Claritin before going to school. As Clyde would say, "Dude, imagine if you were like, 'Just wait, I need to blow my nose' in the middle of making out!" The obnoxious, commanding tone stayed, though. Clyde thought it was a good voice to use for some boring, meditative dictatorship. As for him... well, the pills didn't do shit. But he figured he was allergic to South Park, and that was as good an explanation as any, right?

He ran up the stairs to his room, and Craig followed silently. The backpack was dropped unceremoniously to the floor, the blow-up poster of Liane Cartman was gazed at lovingly for a millisecond – and Craig suddenly stated loudly that it was fifty seconds to the show.

Get back to reality, d00d. Seriously, like, please.

"Wait, I need to get some candy." His tone was beseeching and rather pathetic.

Craig's eyes narrowed; and Clyde could hear a voice in his head, amidst the swirling YAY PORN! thoughts of his consciousness.

**I'm going to kill you. **

"Dude, I'm in withdrawal," protested the brunet, throwing his hands up hopelessly. "I need that chocolate, damn it!" He flinched when the words came out in a whine, but stiiiillllllll.

"Um, Clyde, I didn't say anything," remarked Craig impassively. His eyebrows were raised in polite concern. "Just hurry up, please?"

Clyde saw his friend bite back a scowl, because he knew Craig hated being polite. The teen smiled apologetically, and padded into the kitchen to grab a handful of chocolate bars. "Sorry, I could've sworn I just heard you threatening to kill me." He cracked a sheepish grin. Must have been getting weird stuff caught up in his subconscious.

"Careful, you'll end up like Tweek," Craig said knowledgably.

"Yeah, don't I know it," Clyde assented, shoving the candy into his coat pocket._ And then what, I'll be gay for Craig Tucker? Yeah, whatever._

He jumped down the stairs and leapt for the door. "'Kay, let's go."

He saw Craig's lips twist into an irrepressible smirk. "Give me the key. You can't handle locking the door."

Clyde attempted to _do the Craig_ and flip him off, but he used his index finger by mistake.

* * *

They went two blocks down, turned left, and walked straight into South Park's awfully pun-tastic Hero Complex. Complete with a giant shiny sign. Most places named their co-ops after birds and shit, or inanimate objects like tinsel or – something. But the Mayor had wanted to be _creative_, and, well. Hot damn. As far as Clyde knew, however, Craig did not have a penchant for saving people in distress. What a disappointment.

"It's not that funny," hissed Craig. "It's not my fault I had to move here. Co-ops are easier to deal with. And Christ, you've been here before, it's not a surprise."

Clyde shook with silent laughter. The mental images of Craig randomly rescuing people were still enough to make him crack up. Craig, in a Red Racer spandex suit, methodically saving people from burning houses and muttering "meh" at useful intervals. _Yes_, thought Clyde triumphantly.

"I guess I should stop being such a dick about this sometime, huh?" Snicker. "But did they have to make it so stupid sounding? Hey, stop flipping me off!"

Without further ado, Craig yanked Clyde's arm and dragged his annoying little friend through the door. "I really don't care."

"Man, hanging out with you sucks."

With the utmost nonchalance, they kicked their shoes off. Brown slip-on loafers ("Apparently there was a sale at my Dad's store? I mean, I should probably know, I work there... Huh.") and hard to lace Converse knockoffs ("Well, these were four bucks.").

Shiny braces boy smiled in anticipation; Red Racer and Tweek Tweak were the only things that impassioned him so.

Hatless bedhead crybaby sighed and accepted his fate.

* * *

Red Racer was a horrible, horrible show. Clyde had no trouble discerning why his aptly ranked second best friend was so obsessed with it.

"I'm still not getting why you'd pick this over porn," Clyde repeated, for the fifth time. The credits for the twelfth episode were rolling, and he didn't even know what the show was about. Okay, maybe he knew one thing. "Dude, Pink Racer is such a flat-chest, swear to God."

Craig chucked a pillow into his face.

"Shut up and sing the theme song with me." The brunet glared at his friend mulishly – but sucked in a breath and stumbled through the words.

One, two, three. "Red Raaacer, he's the fastest in the league – shit wait, there's a guitar solo here... _wait_, Clyde!" Between Clyde's voice cracks on all the high notes, and Craig's monotone but enthusiastic grooooving, the theme song was irreparably slaughtered. It was the opposite of awesome. :(

After a moment of recuperation Clyde spoke up blearily, as though Red Racer had gotten him wasted. "I shouldn't have tried headbanging to that." He hugged the pillow to his chest and yawned.

"Fuck, that was bad." Craig rested his chin on his knees and gazed at the screen attentively. He pulled the Red Racer comforter up so that it settled nicely around his shoulders. The first bit of dialogue opened the scene, and a dreamy smile stretched across his face. "Oh sweet, this is my favourite episode. You have to watch this."

Clyde thought he tried too hard to humour Craig sometimes, but he nodded amiably and fixed his eyes on the unfolding drama. "Does Pink Racer go topless? Yeah, it'd be my favourite episode too." Judging from the megadeath glare he received, he decided to wait for a commercial break before venturing to open his mouth again.

-REDRACERREDRACERREDRACER-

"No," said Red Racer, sliding his visor on, "I won't let you sabotage the tournament!"

Dragster laughed sinisterly, and the screen went dark. "You're no match for me, Red Racer," was the malevolent reply.

-REDRACERREDRACERREDRACER-

"Uh, dude, that was totally cheesy. And Dragster sucks. Oh, and there's gonna be another transformation scene, isn't there?"

Craig gave him a patented 'And your opinion means what to me?' look and flipped him off with both hands in a manner that _somehow_ suggested he was about to wax philosophical. "One day, you'll develop this thing called 'good taste,' Clyde. I know it'll be confusing at first, but once you look past that," he shrugged, "you'll realize just how great Red Racer is. And I won't forget to say that I told you so."

Clyde wanted to whine. He really, really did.

"Well, just so you know, you – um, suck." Clyde's eyes flicked toward the kitchen's microwave clock. It was already ten – he'd spent _six hours_ watching Red Racer reruns. It was time to do something. "I should probably go soon. My Mom will kill me, I totally forgot to call. You know, Red Racer's just that interesting –"

Unfortunately for Clyde, he had the worst timing in the history of ever.

"Heeey, Tweek." Craig was trying to be suave or something. So Clyde figured he'd just been ignored. And what was up with Craig's sex voice anyway? It was pathetic. Totally not convincing at all. "How was your shift? Really, you saw gnomes at work?" The dark-haired teen shook his head and pressed the cellphone closer to his ear. "Yeah, you can come over if you want to – okay, see you in a bit!"

In a failing sort of attempt to be witty, Clyde quipped, "Wow, your two favourite things ever, in one day." _Should I just go now?_ he wondered. Red Racer was bad enough, but Red Racer while Craig and Tweek did couple-y things and made out? He wasn't too old to be immature. Dude, _ew_ –

Craig turned to face him. "Tweek's coming over. So what were you saying?"

"Uh, I was just gonna tell you I have to go home in a bit." The brunet stuck his thumb into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully on a much gnawed-at fingernail.

"Oh, that's fine," Craig waved it off, "Tweek can keep me company."

Clyde nodded and opened his mouth to reply, but Craig was on the phone again. Geez.

"Hey, Tweeker?"

Clyde raised his eyebrows at the nickname but didn't disrupt Craig's phone conversation, opting to eavesdrop. He was always amazed by how patient Craig was with Tweek. Then again, Token always made ridiculous exceptions for him. Like that time Red broke up with him and he cried for six days straight...

"What about Kevin Stoley? Huh? No, he doesn't live with me, Tweek. Mine is three-five-nine-one. I think you have the wrong complex."

Wordless screams and several frantic outbursts on the other end, as per usual.

Craig rubbed his eyes. "I'm gonna go outside and find you, okay?" he reassured his hysterical boyfriend. "Nuh-uh, Clyde, you stay here and finish the episode."

The brunet flicked a petulant wrist in Craig's direction, only to be accused of being a fag. "Wha – But – Not cool! Fine." He was _trying_ to think of a way to describe the irony of Craig's totally uncool insult, but words failed him. Clyde sat down again in defeat.

Well, maybe Pink Racer would forget to wear her bra in the next scene.

* * *

Surprisingly, it only took Craig five minutes to find Tweek.

Clyde figured this out by looking at the microwave clock, whose friendly green numbers were glowing in a very mathy way. Then he paused to live vicariously through the painfully awkward couple making out in the doorway. It might've been hot, if Tweek wasn't making such strangled noises, and if he wasn't _taller_ than Craig. The proportions would probably be better for someone Clyde'sheight anyway...

His brown eyes widened and he snapped his head back when he realized just what the fuck he'd been thinking.

"Yeah, so, uh, I'm going!" he announced loudly. He stood up rigidly, trying not to bite his lip.

It takes a manly man man man man to carefully walk around two of his best friends, who are _meshed_ together in a totally not-platonic way, open the door, and close it without choking too hazardously on his own chocolatey saliva. Just FYI. (Yes, Clyde choked quite hazardously.)

As he tried to burn the memories from his brain's vulnerable scar tissues, Clyde put on his super serial face. His eyes narrowed in a _really meaningful_ way; and his lips formed a thin, determined line. He walked out of the complex with one thought, and _only _one thought, on his mind.

_Time to get a girlfriend._

**Exeunt; EPIC SIGH.**

* * *

Oh, Clyde. /heart. I hope you like how I've made Red Racer into a Power Rangers ripoff. I just have a soft spot in my heart for low budget spandex costumes.

Thanks for reading! I hope I remember to update.


	2. Ft Chinese Kids

jfa;fj;ajf hey look an update

* * *

**2. So Straight I'm Going to Crack (ft. Chinese Kids) .mp3**

**

* * *

**

"Craig, get the fuck away from my donuts!" screamed Clyde. It just seemed like a perfectly natural thing to yell out, he mused, running toward the obnoxious figure clad in blue. After all, Craig was, for some mystical reason, sitting on _his_ front lawn,holding _his_ goddamn donuts.

The brunet waved his arms frantically, and began to run across the street.

The other boy flipped him off and reached into the box. Clyde died a little inside when he saw Craig lift a Boston cream from the cardboard package and bite into it. Personally, he preferred crullers, but a donut was a donut was a motherfucking _donut_.

He increased his pace, loafers hitting the ground rapidly, rubber streaking against concrete. It was intense.

Across the street, Craig's shit-stirring grin taunted him. The braces – those really freaky, luminous blue things – sparkled and shot electrical beams into Clyde's eyes. "Oh God, it hurts!" he moaned, bringing an arm up to shield his face. The world was a haze of blue electricity, flashing in a whirl of trippy acid colours.

...And then he got hit by a car. To be more specific, Clyde Donovan got run over by Red Racer. Uh-huh. Complete with striped spandex and checked cape. What a bitch.

D:

"Oh Christ no!"

The shriek tore from his lips and startled him awake, the noise reverberating in his aching head. His vision was blurry and his eyes smarted with exhaustion. Clyde clutched at his tangled bedsheets, brain working into overdrive as he tried to remember exactly where he'd actually put the donuts.

He was on the verge of a brilliant realization, when his eyes landed on something that definitely did not belong in his room. Like, another person. Fucking creeper.

"Go to work," said Token, sitting demurely at Clyde's cluttered computer desk. Needless to say (but it'll be said anyway), Token and Clyde contrasted a lot; neat to messy, suave to dorky. Token checked his watch. "Your shift started five minutes ago."

Clyde wasn't swayed that easily. He was late for work all the time, and today wasn't anything special. Besides, he kind of doubted that his stepdad would fire him – that would just be _wrong_. "Mmph," he replied, mind still precariously shifting between real life and lucid dreaming about sex that would never happen.

Then Token sighed like an emo and that was all it took to guilt-trip Clyde into waking up.

He yawned loudly, threw off the covers, and pulled himself out of bed. Token really had to lay off rolling his eyes, Clyde thought resentfully. Geez. Staggering over in his fuzzy Playboy jammies, he asked the all-important question. "When the hell did you get in here?"

"When you started having that gay dream about Craig." Token shrugged when Clyde let out a squawk of indignant protest. "If the thing with him and Tweek was bothering you so much, you could've just told me. I mean, I kind of thought you were gay anyway –"

"Dude, you're not supposed to just invite yourself in!" Clyde cut Token off. He shot his best friend an annoyed look, which was by all means pathetic and really pouty, and took a seat at his spinney computer chair. "And I'm not _gay_," he huffed. What was the point of buying all those Playboys if his best friend was just going to think he was a fag? Which he wasn't.

For everyone's information, Clyde liked chicks, and he was a pirate.

Token sighed again. "Just go to work, Clyde. Or I'm telling everyone you're gay, like what I did last week."

"It was a dream about _donuts_!" he whined, rubbing his eyes and probably scratching the corneas in the process, _but whatever_. "Get out of my room so I can change." Clyde was a considerate guy. One, he wouldn't strip in front of Token (although he assured himself that Token would indeed be jealous of his amaaazing nonexistent pecs if he ever saw them); and two, he would never go to work in his jammies. Yeah, he might actually get fired for that.

Token – rolling his eyes again – obliged and left the room, letting the door click back into place. Clyde sighed irritably and selected his outfit of the day. Nondescript red hoodie and baggy jeans.

Try as Token might to convince him, Clyde refused to go for the emo pussy with skinny jeans look. When he'd been a freshman, he'd been a failure of a skater boy, and _that_ had sucked. Craig had pulled it off without any trouble, but Clyde just never got that emo fringe to work for him. How were you supposed to see if your hair kept stabbing into your eyes?

He couldn't help that he wasn't as tragically sexy as Craig, anyway. God! Not, he added to himself, that Craig was actually even remotely attractive, with those psycho braces and stupid fringe.

Clyde zipped his hoodie up and pulled the door open. Token breezed through stylishly, with one last important message to relay. "Bebe is single. And Annie, but she's kind of a bitch. Oh, and there's Esther – you know, Kevin's sister?"

"Uuumm. She's hot," Clyde replied, sticking his hands into his pockets. "I'll think about it, okay?"

And then he went to work, because he was responsible and stuff.

(O.O)

"Sorry, I had a nightmare," he mumbled as he made his way into John Donovan's shoe store (Clyde never did figure out if the store had an official name). His stepdad shrugged complacently, and Clyde let a sheepish smile cross his face. "By the way, Dad, do you know where the donuts went? I can't find them."

"Clyde, those were a week old." John adjusted his glasses and gave Clyde an odd look.

He had the decency to blush. "Uh, never mind, then. So what do you want me to start with today?"

His dad pointed at a shelf near the back of the store. Shoes were piled everywhere, and stacks of high tops and runners threatened to tumble down from the shelves. "Try to put those in order."

Clyde shot him a grin, because he secretly believed in cheesy father-son relationships that _worked_, damnit. "I'll see what I can do."

He pinned his employee tag on and trudged over to the size elevens. It was a mess of shoelaces and tangles. Time to undo those knots and get down to work. The brunet was in the middle of putting a pair of Adidas back into a box when a customer tapped him on the shoulder.

"Sorry, just a second," he said apologetically, hurriedly putting the box away. Clyde turned around as fast as he could, ever the pleasant employee. "Hey, how can I help you - dude, Craig, what the hell are you doing here? Hi, Tweek."

"What does it look like?" Craig responded, staring at Clyde with that exasperated look he _hated so much._ "Tweek needs new shoes."

Clyde looked down at the jittery blond's feet. "I'm pretty sure he's not a size eleven, Craig. He's freaking tiny." ...Tweek was tiny in every which way, yup. And yet, somehow, that dickless spaz had Craig completely whipped. Clyde didn't like thinking about it too hard, because then it would start hurting his brain like a bitch. So he kept to his job, which conveniently required very little thinking. "Wrong aisle, dude."

"Oh," Craig muttered tonelessly, staring down at the shoebox that was in his hands.

He resisted his urge to laugh, but only because laughing at Craig was seriously not legal, man. "Try the size fives down there, okay?" Clyde directed. "And let me know if you need anything else. I'll be right here. This isn't weird at all, you know."

God, he was so good.

_And so continued his shift of stacking shoeboxes. Woohoo._

_

* * *

_

Sunday was slightly more interesting. Clyde went skating.

Every kid in South Park had a pair of skates. Even if they didn't go to Stark's Pond that often, the streets got frosted over often enough that you could pretty much skate to school on the road. And consequently get run over by a legion of old people who didn't buy their damn ice tires, but _ughh_ whatthefuckever.

"Clyde, get your ass out here!"

That _voice_. That abnormally bossy voice, so sharp and degrading and cold and completely filled with implications of assholery to come. Holy Christ, his friends always had to wake him up on the weekend, didn't they?

Blearily, Clyde cracked the blinds open, peering out to see his second best friend standing outside in the snow with his yellow-gloved hands flipping him off. "Dude," mumbled the brunet, opening the window (only to let the freezing air whip his face like fuuuck), "what." It wasn't even a question.

"We're – agh! – g-going skating!" Tweek screeched suddenly from somewhere next to Craig. Tweek was so pale, Clyde reflected, that he practically blended in with the snow. How white did you have to _be_? And it was snowing really hard, too, a blizzard of sub-zero ice chunks covering the ground at an insane pace. God damn, it was cold.

"Yeah, Token's waiting, dipshit. Something about you needing to get a girlfriend?" Craig snickered.

Clyde yawned and stretched his arms. "Do I seriously have to come?" he called through the window, even though he already knew the answer. Some way or other, he always ended up going along with whatever Craig told him to do.

"I _tried _to tell him, Clyde! Gah! What if the ice cracks and we all fall in and die because there's ice piranhas just waiting to kill us?" The pale blond gesticulated wildly with shaking arms, and Clyde averted his eyes when Craig leaned over to kiss Tweek in what appeared to be a comforting 'shut the fuck up' manner.

It was sweet, incredibly mushy, and very unnerving. Clyde slammed the window shut with unnecessary force, and began the hunt for a presentable outfit.

Girls would be there, after all.

(O.O)

"Well, there she is." Token nudged him in the ribs and Clyde took a moment to give the girl a good stare.

It was like girl-Kevin, except with some semblance of fashion sense. And not a single Star Wars reference in her outfit! In other words, mmm. She was _legitimately _attractive.

Like all superhot girls, Esther probably deserved a description block of some magnitude. She had straight black hair cut in a bob that framed her (supersexy) face, with several blue streaks tastefully put in. She was slender, had legs that went forever, and –

Okay basically, holy fuck, she was hot...ter than plasma bolts. Clyde ogled and skated badly across the uneven ice, and it was embarrassing for everybody who watched. In the background, Token managed to perfect the art of inconspicuously smacking himself in the face while conspicuously making out with Heidi. That rad son of a bitch.

"Are you checking me out?"

Without Clyde even realizing, Esther had managed to skate over to him, and she was looking at him pointedly, an amused smirk on her face.

"Um, no?" Clyde replied, doing the thing he always did in awkward situations – scratch the back of his head and desperately search for a spot that was actually itchy so it didn't look like he was faking. It was kind of difficult to pull off realistically, because he swore that ever since that lice treatment in fourth grade the nerves in his scalp had been burned off. It was nice for football though, because he could hardly feel a thing when he got tackled to the ground headfirst. No, there was no brain damage involved. "I'm totally not checking you out," he repeated, face flushing against his will.

Esther played with the zipper of her blue jacket, eyebrow arched sceptically. "Really?" A handful of snowflakes fell into her dark hair and he bit his lip, resisting the urge to reach over and brush them away.

"What do _you_ think?" was his weak attempt at trying to be vaguely flirty. Jesus Christ, why did his voice have to be so nasal?

But she just laughed, shaking her head in amusement. "I don't know, Clyde, why don't you tell me at school tomorrow?" Esther patted him on the arm and skated back over to a crowd of chattering girls.

SO HE STARED AT ESTHER STOLEY OUT OF HIS PERIPHERAL VISION UNTIL HE GOT DIZZY AND SHE LEFT FOR HOME. At which point he dragged Token over to Shakey's to "have a discussion, like holy _shit_."

(O.O)

[Insert _BFF Moment_ (C) here.]

"Yeah, so I think I'll ask Esther out," he said offhandedly to Token, as he took a sip of his Coke.

"Exactly what the fuck do you think you're doing with my sister?"

It was like the Chinese mafia all over again, except with less guns. Clyde tried to take the time to admire the plastic lightsaber until he realized that he was going to get the crap beaten out of him by a skinny Asian kid who played an aggressive forward in soccer – and that was _not_ cool.

Kevin Stoley glared at him menacingly from the aisle in Shakey's, and the neatly combed back hair and carefully pressed argyle sweater combo actually managed to enhance his pseudo-kickass image. Fear the neurotic Star Wars freak! Although Clyde kind of preferred the Ghostbusters, himself, because Peter Venkman got _action_ with Dana Barrett. And then there was the fact that the Ghostbusters got things done without getting frozen in the process. No pussy there, bitches.

Honestly, Han Solo couldn't even touch the douchebaggery that was Dr. Peter Venkman.

Beside Kevin was a slightly shorter boy who appeared to be rather apathetic to the whole scene. Clyde recognized him as Raymond Tang, one of those spoiled Middle Park kids in his biology class. And because he was Chinese, he was probably head of the math club or something. Come on, Raymond was playing with a calculator in the middle of the restaurant. TI-Nspire – Texas Instruments, baby.

Feeling rather threatened by the ever-terrifying concept of _math in public_, Clyde dove straight into offering a deal. This was how you dealt with the goddamn mafia. Token, looking pained, shook his head, but the brunet didn't acknowledge his best friend's mortification.

"Okay, _okay_! I'll give you my Star Wars edition of Playboy, Kevin!" Seriously, there was nothing cool about Star Wars except the Princess Leia porn. Carrie Fisher used to be hot.

"Oh. Uh, cool. I guess..." The lightsaber wavered slightly in the air, going slack in Kevin's grip.

Clyde breathed an audible sigh of relief. "So are we oka – "

"But why the hell does it have to be _her_?" Kevin cut him off, voice still sharp with overprotective brotherly mafia rage.

"Well, statistically speaking," said Raymond, putting his iPod on pause to join the conversation, "it's not like Esther isn't hot." He blinked. "...Shit, I used a double negative again."

This was certainly obsessive-compulsive coming from the guy Clyde had expected to be speaking Engrish. Seriously, how many Chinese kids lived in Park County anyway? THREE? Clyde loved his bigoted white trash mountain town too much, and he was getting _concerned_. Not to mention that the Chinese were kind of insane and had a pathological need to terrorize stupid kids with math and Star Wars (CartmanFact#238). Esther was cool, though.

Nice job going off topic there, Clyde.

"Jesus, Ray, the only reason I hang out with you is because no one else talks to me," mumbled Kevin out of the side of his mouth. "And I hate how they put me into math honours with you just because I'm Chinese, I hate math!"

Raymond looked at Clyde apologetically. "Eh (he was totally Canadian), just go out with his sister," the Chinese kid insisted, poking a disgruntled Kevin in the shoulder. "Here, I'll calculate the probability of her saying yes..."

"Oh my _God_, Ray." Kevin, for lack of a better word, facepalmed. Epically. And, had the lightsaber been real, it would have sliced straight through Raymond's left arm.

Clyde decided to just listen to the crazy kid with the calculator. After all, someone who liked math that much couldn't possibly be wrong. Even _if_ Raymond was a weird Middle Park kid who was wearing green circle lenses.

Kevin turned to face him again. "Okay, do whatever you want. But hurt my sister, and so help me I will kill you."

"Uh – All right –"

"And about your Playboy, it better be in decent condition."

Kevin turned on his heel, stalking off with that _typical_ Asian swagga'.

"Dude," said Token, reaching across the table to give Clyde a condescending look, "you're such an idiot."

The brunet shrugged. "Whatever, let's just get out of here, okay? I hate my life." The one problem, Clyde theorised, with living in a tiny mountain town, was that you saw your classmates every day. You couldn't even get away from them on the weekend. Fuckers.

True to form, as soon as he and Token stepped out of Shakey's, they were greeted by the overenthusiastic duo of Stan and Kyle. Admittedly, it was a step up from the Kevin-Raymond tag team, but then again, anything was better than _them_.

"Hey Clyde, Token!" Kyle waved waaay too cheerfully from across the street.

Clyde shuffled his feet in a clump of snow and waved back jerkily, his arm moving up and down like he was a robot. "Hi," he said, putting a smile on because it was _Kyle_ and he actually sort of respected the redhead. Mostly because Clyde knew that if he pissed Kyle motherfucking Broflovski off, he would go all Daywalker-rage on him. And then he would cry, which would suck and was not allowed to happen. And then Kyle would stop letting him copy his math homework.

They were having a pleasant conversation about the weather when Kevin burst from the restaurant not two minutes later, lightsaber still glowing fluorescent green and making tinny zapping noises. "I'm watching you, Clyde," the insane Star Wars fanboy declared, his tone channelling Anakin Skywalker (before the shitty prequel trilogy, of course). "One wrong move and you die. Oh yeah, can I get your phone number before I go to soccer practice?"

Clyde mentally kicked himself in the balls as he punched his number into Kevin's iPhone.

(O.O)

Once he got home from his super fucked up weekend, Clyde dove straight for his laptop and logged into FaceBook. He typed Esther's name into the search engine and opened the browser to her profile. It was all very businesslike. From the realm of pixels and HTML that Clyde could never bring himself to learn, was a world of pretty pictures.

_Why_ hadn't he stalked her page before?

No matter. Clyde bit his lip and dragged the cursor to Esther's profile picture to enlarge the image. And then... he pressed **print**.

Smiling in a particularly lovesick way, Clyde tacked the picture to the wall, just above his bed. Because he was so fucking unbendably straight, y'know.

* * *

School days had to have the bitchiest routine ever.

The doorbell wouldn't stop ringing, and Clyde was starting to get pissed off.

"WHY!" he yelled into his pillow, eyes scrunched up in some form of teenagery pain. "...Ugh."

Clyde rolled out of bed, hit the floor with his face, and continued rolling around until he banged his head on his dresser drawer. God _damn_ it.

-Clyde got changed! +50pts-

He slung his backpack over his shoulders, grabbed a Twinkie – yes, a goddamn _Twinkie_ – from the counter, and with a resolute groan of absolutely necessary angst, pulled the door open.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm going to get a girlfriend," he protested in exasperation when Craig opened his mouth to greet him.

"I was going to say _hi_, but okay, that works too." The dark-haired boy crossed his arms and leaned against the doorway, the flaps of his hat swaying whimsically (read: gay) in the air. "I don't even know why I fucking wait for you every morning, I'm gonna be late for English now, you douche canoe." Ta-dah, middle finger raised.

It was like that every day. Clyde appreciated it, along with the five missed calls and that really nice voicemail of, "Get the fuck up you dumbfuck what the fuck wake up I fucking hate you."

(O.O)

**A NORMAL SCHOOL DAY.**

First period. Math. Parabolas. Curves that managed to avoid being sexy. Curves that he couldn't even _lie tangent to_. Clyde made a strangled noise in the back of his throat when he thought of all that unattractive curvature, dizzying twists and turns that had no resemblance to porn. God, it was awful. Then he faceplanted into his binder.

"Hey, Clyde."

The brunet lifted his head from the desk for a fleeting moment. He caught sight of red hair from the corner of his eye, stubbornly bouncy bits of the familiar Jewfro escaping the confines of Kyle's ushanka. "Well, you're a morning person, huh?" he said by way of greeting, eyes drooping even as the words left his mouth.

Kyle and Clyde weren't exactly friends, but they were acquainted well enough to talk to each other without being awkward about it... though the only reason they sat together in math was because there weren't any other South Park kids in the class. It was pretty much dominated by creepy Middle Park students that neither he nor Kyle had any intention of hanging out with.

Okay, so they would never get over elementary school football. So _what_? There had been many a humiliating defeat, and Clyde winced every time he thought about the South Park Cows. He'd been on that team. He'd _lost_ on that team. Multiple times.

"Broflovski?" came a voice from somewhere at the front of the room. Clyde hated that voice. All it did was talk about math and D-minuses and parabolas.

"Dude, wake up," Kyle hissed, nudging Clyde in the arm with an unnaturally pointy elbow. "She's taking attendance, if you haven't noticed – I'm here, Ms. Shields!"

"Ugh, seriously..." mumbled Clyde, his arm shooting up when his name was called. And then he slumped back down into his desk. He was very pleased with himself for picking seats at the back of the class, because it made sleeping and cheating so much easier. "Can I get the notes from you later? Your writing is easier to read..."

Kyle laughed. "You're going to be my math bitch forever, but I guess that's okay," said the redhead, pushing his glasses up along the bridge of his nose. "Seriously, you fucking owe me, dude."

Clyde just nodded, happy to comply.

The rest of the day passed on equally uneventfully, as per usual. At one point during lunch, though, he had to run to the washroom to throw up after seeing Craig and Tweek getting to second base while he was _eating his motherfucking tacos_. And that was not acceptable on _so_ many levels.

He seriously had to make new friends, because the ones he had were TOTALLY ISOLATING HIM.

Token was at some other bench with Heidi and the rest of the cheerleading squad and their boyfriends, and Cartman (Clyde's backup-backup best friend) was plotting out evil schemes with Wendy. In the end there were only so many options left, right? He didn't really want to sit with any of the single people, which consisted of Stan and Kenny, who looked like they were going to fuck each other out of sheer desperation; Kyle, who was studying physics and listening to whatever music he was listening to; and Kevin, who was fucking wearing _cleats_ and violently swinging his legs back and forth.

So Clyde was stuck with Craig, Tweek, and his tacos.

_#Today, my best friends were making out in front of me when I was eating lunch. I threw up. That was like fucking $10 in tacos. FML_

_

* * *

_

* * *

I have publicly walked around holding a lightsaber, so it's totally realistic to have Kevin doing it. ;)

And holy crap is that _het Stolovan_? I see what I did there -.- Kbye hiatus forever due to school.


End file.
